


The Quest for Perfection

by dashakay



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night, except it's their eleventh date and they're still at the making out stage.  It's like high school all over again, only with fewer zits and weaker lower backs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to icedteainthebag for being a sounding board and a magnificent beta. You're my own personal Ann Perkins.

Ben likes to think of himself as a patient man, but this is getting ridiculous.

They're on the couch in Leslie's living room, the one room in her house where it's safe to walk without spraining one's ankle on a pile of something, and making out while Ken Burns' _Prohibition_ documentary plays in the background. It's not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night, except it's their eleventh date and they're still at the making out stage.  It's like high school all over again, only with fewer zits and weaker lower backs.

Leslie is a world-class kisser. Top notch. She's an enthusiastic kisser who also has the ability to kiss with nuance and style—a real rarity. She does acrobatic things with her tongue that would make Nastia Liukin seethe with jealousy. Kissing Leslie is better than he'd ever imagined during his moments of fancy before they ever got together (which by the way was a really, really good idea even though they could both lose their jobs if Chris ever found out).

Every time Ben tries to make a move to something beyond kissing and light touching, Leslie finds a way to stop him in his tracks. Every damn time.

This time, Ben lets his fingers creep under her blouse. Her skin is warm and soft as a baby's. Inch by inch his hand crawls up her stomach until they reach the Promised Land, the prickly lace of her bra. He's so hard it's actually starting to hurt. He's been hard for approximately eighty-two percent of the time he's been kissing Leslie. And even some of the rare times when they weren't kissing.

Leslie pulls away from him. "Wow, is it really so late? After midnight! I have a breakfast meeting with the Gray Panthers at seven a.m. Hate to kick you out, Ben, but I've got to kick you out! Early bird gets the elderly worm, right?"

Ben stands up, trying to pretend he's not sporting a giant erection. He casually pulls down his sweater, but there's no hiding it.  He only hopes it will subside before he gets home because if his roommates see it, he'll never hear the end of it.

*

On the way home from Leslie's, Ben stops at the Gas-n-Snax to buy a 32-ounce bottle of Cool Blue Gatorade. He's so dehydrated from three solid hours of kissing that he finishes the whole bottle before he gets home. He has to drive around for a half hour, listening to Rush Limbaugh, the un-sexiest thing he can find on the radio, before his hard-on subsides.

He doesn't get it. Not at all.

Is it him? Does she not find him attractive? He's aware that his hair is has hedgehog-like qualities and he has no idea how to dress (Tom feels free to inform him of both things at least twice a week).  He probably should have taken Chris up on his offer to show him how to use the free weights at the gym. And actually joined the gym. More than one girlfriend has teased him about having no butt whatsoever. He knows he's not exactly Adonis.

Does he smell?

But it can't be that. Leslie is clearly into him. She jumps up and down and claps her hands almost every time she sees him for the first time of the day, even at work (which can get kind of awkward at meetings). She sends him mushy emails with attached sparkly pony GIFs. She wants to kiss him pretty much every minute of the day.

It makes no sense to him.

It's not that he just wants to get laid. It would be nice, really _really_ nice, he can live without it. That's why the Internet was invented. For the porn. That and _World of Warcraft_.

It's more than sex. Ben really, really likes Leslie. Who wouldn't? She's pretty, smart, passionate about a lot of things, hilarious (frequently unintentionally so), liberal, she's an amazing friend to the people in her life, and she likes him back. It's still kind of too early to tell, but he thinks he might love her. No, that’s bullshit. He knows he loves her.

It isn’t as if Leslie has some kind of religious or moral scruples about sex outside of marriage. She unsuccessfully petitioned the City Council to allow Parks Department employees to give out condoms to horny teenagers fooling around in the parking lots of city parks.

And they're both healthy, single adults. By this point in their relationship, they should be having sex like normal healthy, single adults. It's a pretty much a social convention, for the love of L'il Sebastian!

Okay, yeah. He wants to get laid. And he wants it to happen with Leslie. He's not going to lie—he wants her. He wants her bad and if it doesn't happen soon he's probably going to die.

*

When he gets home, April is curled up on a Twister mat and snoring. Andy is bending over her, attempting to get "right hand yellow" despite his sleeping wife taking up seventy-five percent of the mat. "Hey," Andy says. "How was the dragon-slaying tonight?"

"Super," Ben says, trying not to sound too sour. His tried and true excuse for when he's out with Leslie is that he's playing Dungeons and Dragons. This sneaking around business is getting kind of old.

He grabs another Gatorade out of the fridge, walks into his room and locks the door. Ben fires up his computer. It's almost too easy to find filthy manips of Tricia Helfer and Grace Park.

Ben hasn't masturbated so much since he was thirteen and first discovered the charms of Winona Ryder. He's probably growing hair on his palms but he's afraid to look.

*

It's the middle of the night when Ben sits bolt upright in bed. It comes to him in a flash of insight like lightning across the summer sky. He _knows_ why Leslie is being so weird. He knows, or at least he has a pretty good idea.

Now he just has to figure out how to confirm his hunch.

*

Ben should probably go right to Leslie and have a conversation with her about his suspicions, but he chooses the sneaky path instead.

He parks two blocks away (can't have Leslie driving by and seeing his car, even though she's supposed to be at a Jaycees meeting tonight) and creeps in the shadows towards his target. On the front stoop, Ben knocks softly on the door. He almost hopes she isn't home.

The door swings open and Ann is standing there in sweats, a glass of wine in her hand. "Ben!" she says in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Can we talk?"  
  
"Of course." She ushers Ben inside. "Is everything all right with Leslie?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling as shifty as he's sure he looks. "Sure, sure. Leslie's just fine. She's pressing the flesh of the Jaycees tonight."

Ann wrinkles her brow. "No, I meant...is everything all right with you and Leslie? You know, relationship-wise."

"Oh, yeah. No, everything's good. I just wanted to ask you something."

"Have a seat." She waves her hand at the couch. "What's up?"

He sits down. "Uh, this is super uncomfortable, Ann, but I figure you know Leslie better than just about anybody and she probably tells you lots of stuff, so there's something I wanted to know about her."

Ann folds herself into the chair opposite the couch. "So, what is it?"

Ben's face starts to feel hot. Shit, is he actually blushing? "Do you happen to know...has Leslie said anything about...do you think it's possible...is Leslie a virgin?"

"What?" Ann looks at him like he's sprouted horns. "Of course she's not! And why are you asking me? Why don't you ask Leslie herself?"

"It just feels like a really awkward question to ask her." He starts to stand up. "I'm sorry. This must seem really inappropriate."

"She's a thirty-six-year-old woman, Ben. Of course she's not a virgin," Ann says indignantly. Then she inhales sharply and a look of wonder crosses her face. "Oh, waiiiiiiiit a minute here. OH MY GOD, LESLIE'S TOTALLY A VIRGIN."

Ben sits back down. "You think so?"

Ann's eyes are wide. "It all makes sense now. It all makes a terrible, weird kind of sense."

"Ann," he warns. "Talk to me."

"It's just that Leslie has always been kind of strange and squeamish about talking about sex. She's had boyfriends but she's never really said anything about having sex with them. And whenever I bring stuff like that up she changes the subject. The only guy she's ever definitely said she slept with was Mark Brendanawicz. Did she tell you about him?"

He shakes his head. "She didn't. But Tom did."

"Of course he did. Tom's worse than Perez Hilton and TMZ combined. Mark and I went out last year. I asked him once about the one-night stand he had with Leslie and he denied it ever happened. But I didn't believe him."

"Why not?"

"I thought he probably thought it would weird me out hearing that he'd slept with my best friend. But...but what if Mark was really telling the truth?"

"Then Leslie definitely could be a virgin. Not that there's anything wrong with it," he adds hastily. Wait, was that a _Seinfeld_ reference?

"Ben, I don't know why, but I think she could be." She shakes her head in disbelief. "It explains _so_ much. My question is - why do _you_ think she is? You don't have some kind of freaky virgin fetish, do you?" Ann's eyes seem to bore into his.

"No, no, I do—"

"Because if you do, I'll have you know that even if Leslie's never had penis in vagina sex, she might not have much hymen left anymore. Many women with active lifestyles don't. In fact, the whole notion of 'breaking' a hymen is largely a myth. The hymen is actually a corona that—"

"Jesus, Ann!" he interrupts. This talk about hymens with his girlfriend's best friend, even though she's a nurse, can't end quickly enough for him. He can't look Ann in the eye anymore. "No, I'm not a virgin fetishist. NO."

"Then why?"

He stands up again. "I'd rather not say. I’d rather it be between Leslie and me. Is that cool?"

"Yeah, I feel kind of disloyal talking behind her back anyhow," Ann says.

"Would you feel better if you knew my intentions were good?"

"Tons. Because nobody messes with my Leslie."

"I know. It's one of your best qualities," he says. “By the way, we never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“Exactly.”

“Ben, just _talk_ to her,” Ann says. “You know Leslie. She’d rather you be straight with her than dance around the issue.”

“Thanks, Ann.” He lets himself out.

Under cover of night, Ben slinks back to his car.

*

It takes Ben a few days to come up with a plan, the perfect plan, to bring up the subject. It’s not like you can just waltz up to your new girlfriend and say, “Great job at the swing set forum and, by the way, are you a virgin?”

On Friday night, he brings a pizza and a DVD over to Leslie’s house. “Were you able to get _Hotel Rwanda_?” She looks especially pretty tonight, wearing jeans and a rather tight black t-shirt, her hair loose and her face scrubbed free of makeup. She’s the Casual Friday Leslie he almost never gets to see.

“Yeah, I thought maybe we could stand to watch something lighter so I picked up a comedy.” He tries to sound super casual, as if his choice of movie were not completely premeditated.

Leslie lifts the top off the pizza box and sniffs appreciatively. “Ooh, sausage and pepperoni! You know me so well. What movie did you get?”

“ _The Forty-Year-Old Virgin_ ,” he says. “Have you seen it?” He takes a quick swig of beer.

“No, I haven’t. Heard it’s good, though.” Ben might be imagining things, but her voice sounds a little strained.

“It’s the best. You’ll love it.” He puts the disc in the player and pushes play.

It turns out that Ben’s supposedly perfect plan for breaking the virginity ice, no pun intended, was a really bad one Leslie hardly laughs during the movie and while she holds his hand throughout, she doesn’t lean over to kiss him like she always does when they’re watching any kind of televised entertainment in the dark. Weirdest of all, Leslie hardly eats any pizza. Every time one of the main character’s friends makes fun of him for still being a virgin, Ben cringes. Why did he think this was an awesome way to bring up the subject of virginity again?

As the credits roll, Ben turns to Leslie. “Did you like it?”

She shrugs. “It was all right. It had its moments.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Ben says. “I do wish Andy’s buddies had been a little more sympathetic about him being a virgin, though. I mean, there are a lot of reasons why someone could still be a virgin and there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s totally normal; everyone goes at their own speed and there’s no point at which it becomes ‘wrong’ to still be a virgin.”

Oh Christ, he’s babbling like an idiot.

“Sure,” Leslie says, her voice sounding strangely brittle.

Okay, he’s just going to go for it. There’s no good way to ask what he’s about to ask so he might as well just say it and be done with it.

It all comes out in a rush. “LeslieIdon’twanttooffendorembarrassyoubutareyouavirgin?”

She turns to him, her mouth open. That gorgeous mouth that he wants to kiss so badly, even though he knows it’s not a good time. “What?”

Ben tries to keep his voice as gentle and non-judgmental as possible. “Are you still a virgin?”  
  
Leslie’s face goes pink immediately. “What? Why would you think that? What?”

He touches her shoulder. “I don’t know. Just a feeling I have. We’ve been together kind of a while and things...you know, sex things, haven’t really progressed.” Now _his_ face is red.

Leslie doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead. It is very possibly the first time she has been silent in her entire life.

“I’m not trying to pressure you. I want us to take things at a pace we’re both comfortable with, but I get the sense that you’re maybe not that experienced and that’s why you’ve been putting the brakes on our physical relationship. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” He really _is_ parroting old _Seinfeld_ episodes now. Fantastic.

She turns to him, grimacing. “Yeah, I’m a virgin,” she says softly. “It’s totally embarrassing.”

He pulls her to him and kisses the top of her head. “Why are you embarrassed?”

“Ben, I’m thirty-six. Trust me, it’s embarrassing.”  
  
“You’re being stupid,” he says. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Not with me.”

“I’m sorry I kept stalling things but I knew if we went any further we’d have to have this conversation. And everything with us has been so amazing and I didn't want to ruin it." She takes a deep breath. "It’s just…it’s just that when I was young I told myself I’d wait for the perfect guy and the perfect situation. But I never really found the perfect guy _or_ the perfect situation and the next thing I knew I was in my mid-thirties, still a virgin. It’s weird, like having a third nipple or something.”

“The perfect situation? What would that be?” He’s almost afraid to find out what that would be, let alone her concept of the perfect guy.

She gets a dreamy look on her face. “Something like making love on the top of a mountain at the exact moment of sunset while a pair of mated bald eagles fly overhead. And a string quartet playing Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_.”

He feels his eyebrow raise. “A string quartet? You want a string quartet to watch you lose your virginity?” He pokes her in the ribs.

“They’d be behind a screen, Ben. Duh.” Leslie laughs a little. “I know, it’s really stupid. But I’ve always wanted my first time to be memorable. Perfect.”

If there’s one thing Ben Wyatt knows for sure, it’s that he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to be able to deliver a perfect first time for any woman, even if Leslie wanted him to be that guy. He’s not completely terrible in bed, but a blissfully romantic first time of sublime perfection? Not so much.

She takes his hand. “Ben, I’ve been thinking about this. I think you’re the perfect guy.”  
  
His heart actually lurches. “Wow. Are you sure?” He’s honored and awed that Leslie wants him to be her first. And that she thinks he’s perfect. At least, perfect for her.

She nods. It might be the light but he thinks he can see tears in her eyes and quite a lot of mischief. “Yeah. Now you just have to come up with the perfect plan.”

Sure. No pressure. But this is Leslie, he’ll have to come up with something good. She’s worth it.

“You do realize that there are no mountains in Indiana, right? And I’m not having any form of sex with a string quartet nearby, screen or no screen,” Ben says.

“I trust you,” she says and kisses him.

They end up making out so hard that Ben wakes up the next morning looking like he got back-alley collagen injections in his lips.  He spends the bulk of the day hiding from April and Andy in his bedroom with an icepack to his mouth.  
  
END OF PART ONE.


	2. Chapter 2

It's no mean feat to try to surprise Leslie Knope. That woman is _wired_. She knows everyone in town and has informers everywhere. She would have succeeded remarkably well in the French Resistance.  
  
Ben spends a few mildly panicked days attempting to come up with a plan of action that is original, romantic and good enough for Leslie. More than a few hours are taken up by pacing his office, running different scenarios through his mind. All of them suck.  
  
Finally, he remembers a conversation he had with Leslie not that long ago and it all falls into place. It's not the most original idea in the world, in fact it probably falls into clichéd territory, but it's at least solidly romantic and there's a small element of surprise. It'll have to do.  
  
He sends an email to her personal account.  
  
 _I hope you're free on Saturday night. If yes, I'll pick you up at your place at seven. Dress up._  
  
Leslie responds in forty-seven seconds.  
  
 _I'm totally free. YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_  
  
He has a surprising amount of preparation to do for the big night—haircut, carwash, a stealthy trip to the drugstore for condoms, and the purchase of a new suit.  
  
Ben swallows his pride and asks Tom to go suit shopping with him, with the excuse that he needs it for a meeting with the mayor. Say what you want about Tom, but the man knows his fashion. They go to Dillard's, where every salesperson in the place rushes up to Tom and hugs him.  
  
Tom and Ben spend two supremely tedious hours in the men's department. Tom makes him try on practically everything, even several suits that appear to be made of sharkskin. "Don't you want to look like a baller?" Tom asks him after Ben refuses to try on one particularly hideous specimen.  
  
"No," Ben says firmly. "I do _not_ want to look like a baller. Or a member of the chorus of _Guys and Dolls_. I want to look like an adult. This is for an important meeting."  
  
"You're no fun," Tom grumbles, but eventually finds Ben a charcoal gray suit and red tie that make him look like he's running for Congress—true Leslie Knope catnip.  
  
Tom makes Ben go to the Dennis Feinstein counter and sprays him with a cologne called Erector that smells like old shoes and bear musk. "Tommy Fresh is way better, but the ladies do like this."  
  
"The ladies like the scent of hot garbage?" Ben asks, wishing he had a fire hose to rinse the stink off his skin.  
  
When they return to City Hall, Leslie accosts them in the hall. "What is that smell?" she says, wrinkling her nose. "It smells like the seal tank at the Pawnee Zoo."  
  
Ben just glares at Tom.  
  
*  
  
It's the big day.  
  
Ben takes himself, his new suit and his shiny car to Leslie's house. Almost as soon as he pulls up, she walks out the door. Ben takes a minute to simply sit and admire her. There's a lot to admire.  
  
Leslie is wearing a silky black slip dress and matching strappy heels. While Ben firmly believes that she'd look outrageously sexy in a burlap sack, he's never seen her wear anything like this before. She takes his breath away.  
  
He meets her halfway on the sidewalk. "Don't kiss me," she hisses. "The neighbors are not to be trusted."  
  
"What if I really want to?"  
  
She flashes him a sly smile. "Good things come to those who wait."  
  
"Don't I know it," he groans.  
  
Once they're inside his car, Ben reaches into the inside of his pocket and pulls out a black bandana. "I'm going to have to blindfold you now."  
  
"Don't you think it's a little early in our relationship for the _Eyes Wide Shut_ stuff?"  
  
"I'm serious," he says. "You need to be at least a little surprised about where we're going."  
  
"I love surprises!" she says and lets him fasten the blindfold around her.  
  
He drives them in and around Pawnee for almost an hour so that Leslie will have no idea where they're going. Just to torture her, he puts on a CD of banjo music.  
  
"That's just plain mean," she laughs and lifts her hand to the blindfold, which Ben notices out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"No cheating," he warns. "I'll take you straight home if you cheat."  
  
He switches the music to Wilco, which is much more crowd-pleasing.  
  
Finally, Ben pulls into the parking lot of their destination. He'd love to be able to keep her blindfolded inside the building for the surprise, but if they ran into someone they knew it would be really hard to explain why Leslie was blindfolded. He unknots the bandana and it falls away from her face.  
  
"Oh my God!" she squeals. "The Grandville Hotel and Spa! Soft towels! You remembered!"  
  
"Of course I did," he says. When it comes to Leslie, Ben remembers everything.  
  
They begin walking to the entrance. "Are we going to L'Escargot de L'indiana?" Leslie asks, referring to the hotel's fancy French restaurant.  
  
"Nope," he says.  
  
"So we're going to the _hotel_ hotel?" She glances over at Ben and she looks nervous and excited at the same time.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Oh boy," she says under her breath.  
  
*  
  
They walk down a lushly carpeted, hushed corridor. "Is this place in Missouri?" Leslie says, after they turn yet another counter.  
  
Finally, they come to a stop outside a door marked GOVERNOR'S SUITE.  
  
"You reserved the Governor's Suite? That must have cost you half a paycheck," she says.  
  
Ben shrugs and opens the door with a keycard.  
  
As soon as they walk through the door, a black tuxedo-clad butler comes rushing up to them and bows deeply. "Welcome, madam. Welcome, sir," he says in a terrible Pawnee attempt at an English accent. "My name is Salisbury and I'll be at your service." The butler looks like he's about seventeen, acne and all.  
  
Ben looks at Leslie and Leslie looks back at Ben. This is too hilarious.  
  
Salisbury leads them into the living area of the suite, which looks like kind of like Versailles in miniature. It's beautiful but definitely not Ben's style. Ben's only furniture requirement is that a good couch won't show beer or calzone accidents.  
  
"Wow," Leslie says, twirling on the marble floor. "This is unreal." The room is lit by hundreds of small, white candles and there are vases of red roses all over the place. In the background, a sound system is playing _Moonlight Sonata_. "You did this for me?"  
  
Ben smiles. "Of course."  
  
The dining area has a white linen-clad table set for two. Red rose petals are scattered all over the tablecloth and each place setting has more forks than a thoracic surgeon has scalpels. There are six, _six_ , glasses, at each setting. What could one possibly need six glasses for?  
  
"The sleeping chamber," Salisbury intones. The room is roughly the size of a basketball court and the bed is larger than Ben's college dorm room. The gold and green paisley bedspread is scattered with red and white rose petals and two white robes are carefully laid out at the end of the bed.  
  
"Robes!" Leslie almost shouts. She picks one up and rubs her cheek against it. "It's like velvet, silk and cotton all had a fluffy, comfy baby! And you can smell the rose petals on the robe. It's magic!"  
  
Ben strokes a robe. She's not lying. It's the softest thing he's ever experienced, except for maybe the skin of Leslie's stomach.  
  
There's a bubbling hot tub in the corner of the room. Pink rose petals bob about on the surface of the water. "The _baignoire_ maintains a constant, perfect temperature at all times," says Salisbury.  
  
" _Baignoire_?" Ben asks.  
  
"Hot tub," Salisbury says, all traces of his terrible English accent mysteriously vanished.  
  
"You learn something new every day," Leslie says.  
  
"The chef has prepared a very special four-course dinner for our very special guests. Would you care for a glass of champagne with your _hors d'oeurves_?" Salisbury asks.  
  
Leslie nods.  
  
They sit down at the gleaming table and Salisbury pours the champagne, a 2002 Bollinger Brut. Ben doesn't know much about champagne, but it's French, it's bubbly and it's served in a flute that's thinner than a soap bubble. He clinks his glass against Leslie's. "To us," he says.  
  
She smiles. "To us."  
  
Salisbury serves them a plate with a stack of something that looks at least a foot high. " _Mousse d'écrevisses au homard et crevettes_." If anything, Salisbury's French accent is worse than his English. "Crawfish mousse with lobster and shrimp." Salisbury takes about six steps back and stands there, watching them eat.  
  
"Is he going to stay here the whole time?" Leslie whispers and takes a bite. "Ohmygod, this is just like eating a cloud."  
  
"I don't know." It's definitely strange having Salisbury hovering over them, kind of like having a chaperone on their date. A butler-served dinner sounded great on the web site but in reality? Weird.  
  
The dinner is indescribably delicious, the champagne and wine perfection, but their conversation lags under the scrutiny of Salisbury.  
  
"So," Leslie says, pausing to take a sip of white Burgundy. "Did you know that there are have been at least four major raccoon infestations in Pawnee history?"  
  
"I did not know that. Please share."  
  
"The largest and most vicious one was, strangely enough, in January 1975, the month of my birth."  
  
After three courses, ninety minutes, and a lot of raccoon conversation, Salisbury pushes a trolley into the dining room. He removes a domed silver lid from a chafing dish. " _Gaufres belges avec fraises et sauce à l'orange_."  
  
As soon as Leslie spies what's on the dish she runs over. "Belgian waffles!" She turns to Ben. "You've really thought of everything!"  
  
Like there wouldn't be waffles involved in the meal somewhere, Ben thinks, grinning.  
  
The second after Salisbury has served them their dessert plates, Ben slips the kid a twenty and says, "We won't be needing you any longer, tonight, Salisbury."  
  
"Would sir like me to turn down the bed first?"  
  
"Nope. We're all good."  
  
"Very good, sir." Salisbury bows and pushes the cart out of the room. Ben hears the front door shut. It's a satisfying sound.  
  
"Alone at last," he says.  
  
Leslie takes a bite of her waffle and her eyes roll back into her head. "These are the waffles you get in heaven, Ben."  
  
One of life's little pleasures is watching Leslie eat waffles, he thinks.  
  
She puts down her fork. "But you know what would be even better than waffles?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"If you kissed me."  
  
"Done," he says and is by her side in record time. She stands up, nearly as tall as he is in heels, and kisses her. He tastes lipstick and strawberries.  
  
"You didn't need to do all this," she says.  
  
"Of course I did," he says, bending down to kiss her neck. "You deserve nothing less."  
She looks up at him, her eyes trusting. "Take me to bed, Ben."  
  
His heart flutters. "But you haven't finished your waffles."  
  
"The waffles can wait," she says.  
  
Wow, she wants him more than waffles. It's a day for miracles.  
  
Ben decides it's time for a big, romantic gesture. He sweeps Leslie into his arms and picks her up like Rhett picked up Scarlett in _Gone With the Wind_ (Ben re-watched the movie last night for Rhett Butler romantic-guy tips) to carry her off to bed. It seemed like a great idea when he was watching the movie, but here in real life Ben staggers a little. He's a guy who doesn't lift a lot of things in his daily life.  
  
He carries Leslie toward the bedroom, pretending she's as light as a feather, even if he's a little concerned he might rupture a disc in his back. Just as they enter the candle-lit bedroom, his toe catches on the edge of an Oriental rug and he trips, stumbles, and nearly drops her.  
  
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. He manages to stumble up to the giant bed and deposit her on it.  
  
Leslie starts laughing, a full-bodied belly laugh. "That was awesome," she says. "Poor you, trying to carry me like He-Man or something."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Leslie."  
  
She stands up. "I don't know about you, but I think a quick dip in the pretentiously-named hot tub would be relaxing."  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"But I might need help getting this dress off," she says, removing one of her shoes and tossing it over her shoulder.  
  
"I can see why. It looks complicated."  
  
He slides the slippery material over her head. She's wearing a black strapless bra and silky black panties. In the light of the candles, her skin seems to glow. "Hubba hubba," he says.  
  
She looks down, suddenly shy. "Yep, that's me. Almost naked."  
  
"Not nearly naked enough," he says, starting to kiss her all over again.  
  
"What about you? I demand nudity parity!" She unknots his tie and slides it out from under his collar.  
  
"You women's libbers," he huffs as she unbuttons his shirt.  
  
"You do realize we refer to ourselves as feminists these days," she says in mock outrage. She unhooks her bra and, yep, her breast are as beautiful as he'd always imagined.  
  
"It's hot when you say feminist," he says, unzipping his pants.  
  
She hooks her thumbs into her panties and slides them down her thighs. Instant erection time. "It's even hotter when you say it, Ben. Say it for me."  
  
"Feminist," he says, enunciating each syllable. He takes a deep breath and steps out of his boxers. He feels strangely shy knowing she's looking at him.  
  
"Love it," she says. She smacks him on his bare bottom and fairly prances over to the hot tub.  
  
The water is the ideal temperature. This is absolutely perfect, Ben thinks as he stretches his legs out in the hot, bubbly water. He congratulates himself on orchestrating the best possible scenario. He's not an assistant city planner for nothing.  
  
He slides over to Leslie's side of the hot tub. He's pretty sure he's going to wake up from this amazing dream any minute, where he's in a hot tub with a naked Leslie Knope. It's too good to be true. They kiss, their naked bodies touching for the first time.  
  
Perfect, Ben thinks again.  
  
Just then, a horrifyingly loud noise echoes through the room.  
  
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP. BEEP BEEEEEEP.  
  
"What the—" Leslie starts to say, but she's rudely interrupted.  
  
HOTEL GUESTS, A FIRE EMERGENCY HAS BEEN REPORTED IN THE BUILDING. PLEASE EVACUATE FROM THE BUILDING AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.  
  
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP. BEEP BEEEEEEP.  
  
"Fuck," Ben says, finishing Leslie's sentence for her.  
  
*  
  
They run to the parking lot, only to see flames shooting out from what seems to be the hotel restaurant. Smoke is everywhere, mingling with the drizzle falling from the sky. Something up there is conspiring against him, Ben decides. Only malicious fates would create a hotel fire to ensure that he wouldn’t get laid.  
  
“What do we do now?” Ben asks. He can hear sirens in the distance.  
  
“I don’t know,” Leslie says, “but we have to get out of here. The Fire Department is coming. And I know every single firefighter in town. They can’t see us like this.”  
  
They are both barefoot, wearing only hotel robes. Granted, the robes are the softest, most comfortable robes on the planet and they smell like a summer meadow, but Leslie’s right. If any of the firefighters sees them, it’s scandal time.  
  
A police car pulls into the parking lot, its lights flashing. “The cops!” Ben shouts and runs for his car. He hastily unlocks the doors and they both get inside.  
  
“Police officers are your friends, Ben,” Leslie says, patting his arm.  
  
“Now isn’t the time for your Officer Friendly lecture. Where are we going to go? Another hotel?”  
  
Leslie looks down at herself. “We can’t check into another hotel wearing robes, with no shoes. That’s just tacky. And another potential scandal.”  
  
He sighs. “Your place, then?”  
  
“Can’t. Jean-Ralphio’s sleeping on the couch.”  
  
Ben starts the car. “Wait…what? Why is Jean-Ralphio sleeping on your couch?”  
  
“Because,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Tom got the long straw and is sleeping in my guest room.”  
  
“Let’s back this truck up. Why are Tom and Jean-Ralphio sleeping at your house tonight?”  
  
“Last week Jean-Ralphio was evicted from his place for operating a sweatshop in his living room that produced faux Prada handbags, so he was sleeping on Tom’s couch. A pipe broke in Tom’s kitchen and flooded his whole apartment. I thought _everyone_ knew that. I told them they could stay at my house until the plumbing was fixed and the apartment dried out.”  
  
“Okay, that actually made some sense.”  
  
“So, where should we go?” she asks.  
  
It pains him to say this. Deeply. “My place?”  
  
“What about April and Andy? They can’t know about us.”  
  
“They’re in Chicago this weekend.”  
  
“Oh, right,” Leslie says. “The Battle of the Pearl Jam Tribute Bands. How could I forget something so important?”  
  
One thing Ben loves about Leslie is how she seems to effortlessly, magically know what is going on with everyone in Parks, and in the whole town, really.  
  
“My house it is,” Ben says, and pulls out of the parking space.  
  
It’s the least romantic place in the entire state of Indiana.  
  
*  
  
Ben unlocks the door to his house and is immediately accosted by the smell of stale beer and something that is probably nacho cheese. “Welcome to romance,” he says.  
  
“It’s not bad,” Leslie says, stepping over a pile of wadded-up socks. “Reminds me of college. Besides, I’m not one to talk.”  
  
He squeezes her hand. “Look, no bald eagles on mountaintops tonight. Not here. Just sleeping.”  
  
She nods. “I’d like to take a shower. My hair smells like smoke.”  
  
At least the bathroom has to be relatively clean. Ben cleaned it himself last night. Hopefully, Andy didn’t eat any burritos between then and now.  
  
They walk into his room, which is an oasis of organization and cleanliness. “This is nice,” Leslie says, looking around. “It’s like a whole different house in here.”  
  
He rummages in his closet and finds her a clean towel. “I have stuff you can wear to bed. Any preference for sweat pants or pajama pants?”  
  
She smiles. “Just a t-shirt will do. I can’t stand to sleep wearing anything on my legs. I get claustrophobic.”  
  
The thought of Leslie wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else causes things to stir beneath his robe. “Um…there should be soap and shampoo and stuff in the shower. Girl stuff, because April lives here.” He hands her a clean shirt.  
  
While Leslie is in the shower, Ben wonders if he has enough time to jerk off. It would take a lot of the pressure off. On the other hand, she might walk in on him and that would be the ultimate in humiliation. Instead, he checks to see if his sheets are clean (they are) and fetches a bottle of water for her. He changes into a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt.  
  
The door opens and Leslie walks in, her hair damp, her face flushed, and wearing his Minnesota Twins t-shirt, which comes to mid-thigh on her. Oh sweet Jesus and all the apostles and the disciples (what’s the difference between them, anyhow?) and all things that are supposedly holy. She looked beautiful in the black slip dress and heels but she’s a million times hotter wearing just a t-shirt.  
  
Ben immediately starts babbling. “Okay, so you can sleep here, the sheets are clean and I’ll just sleep on the couch and we’ll revisit the other stuff…the sexing stuff…another time.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll sleep on the couch.”  
  
“You don’t want to do that. You really, _really_ don’t want to do that. It would take me hours to get all of the Cheetos out of it.”  
  
She sits at the edge of the bed and the shirt rides up a little higher. Ben attempts to avert his eyes. “You know, we could just sleep together. In the bed. I mean, we’re adults and everything and can totally share a bed in a non-sexual fashion.”  
  
“Sure,” he says. Is she serious? Maybe she can but it’s going to be torture for him.  
  
Leslie pulls down the covers. “Do you have a side of the bed?”  
  
“No. It’s always been just me in this bed so I kind of sleep in the middle.”  
  
“Good,” she says, a satisfied smile on her face.  
  
He climbs in bed next to her. “No funny business, young lady,” he says in a mock stern voice.  
  
“I’ll be the very model of propriety.”  
  
He turns off the light. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out tonight,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll think of something else and we’ll try it again.” He would love to kiss her some more but that path leads only to madness.  
  
“It’s okay,” she says. “Everything happens for a reason. I don’t know what the reason for tonight was but there has to be a reason in there somewhere.”  
  
Ben turns over so that his back is to her. If he can pretend that Leslie is not actually in his bed, wearing his Kirby Puckett shirt, he might eventually be able to fall asleep.  
  
All is quiet for a minute. Ben closes his eyes and tries to think wholesome, happy thoughts. Picnics, church dinners, public forums full of whining Pawnee citizens. Leslie leading a public forum wearing her gray suit with the blue blouse, her blue eyes bright and… Oh, fuck, this isn’t working one bit.  
  
The bed squeaks and Ben can hear Leslie creeping over to his side of the bed. “Are you asleep?”  
she whispers.  
  
“No.” He is probably never going to sleep again. Not as long as she’s in his bed.  
  
“I’m not, either.” Well, duh. “You never told me about how you lost _your_ virginity.”  
  
“You don’t want to hear about that.”  
  
“No, I do. How old were you?”  
  
“Um…well, I was sixteen. No, fifteen.”  
  
“ _Fifteen_? You were practically a baby!”  
  
“Yeah, I was. I was only shaving once a week back then.”  
  
Leslie inches closer and he can feel her warm breath on the back of his neck. “How did it happen? Who was the girl? Or the boy. I don’t want to make heterosexist assumptions.”  
  
He laughs. “It was a girl. Her name was Sonja, my best friend’s older sister. She was seventeen.”  
  
“An older woman, huh? Sexy. Tell me about it.” Her fingers start doing this thing to his ear and a shiver runs through his entire body.  
  
“It was summer, just before my junior year of high school. _Final Fantasy_ had just been released and my friend Leif and—“  
  
“Leif and Sonja?” she interrupts. “It sounds like you were living in a Pippi Longstocking book.”  
  
“You have no idea. In Partridge, everyone is either Norwegian or Swedish. We were the town freak WASPs. My mother was shunned at first because she didn’t know how to make _lefse_.”  
  
“Back to the virginity losing,” she says. And then she does something that’s almost unforgivable. Her hand slides down the side of his body and lands between his legs, where her fingers start doing something, a twiddling and stroking kind of thing.  
  
“Oh, Leslie,” he groans. “You need to stop that right now.”  
  
“No. Now tell your story.”  
  
He loves it when she’s bossy. Ben tries to gather his thoughts in the wake of the barrage of touch, delicious touch. “Uh, so, I stayed overnight to play _Final Fantasy_ but Leif fell asleep at some point. I went out into the hallway to get a drink of water and ran into Sonja.”  
  
“What did she look like?”  
  
“Tall, long black hair, lots of eyeliner. Kind of Goth for Partridge. I remember that her ears were pierced a million times. She asked me if I wanted to go in her room and listen to the new Pixies album so I… _Leslie you need to stop that..._ ”  
  
She giggles. “Finish the story.”  
  
“So we hung out in her room, smoked clove cigarettes and listened to the Pixies. I’d never heard them before and thought they were really weird. And then she jumped my bones.”  
  
“That’s it?” Leslie sounds disappointed.  
  
“Pretty much. It wasn’t that interesting. She started kissing me and then next thing I knew we were doing it. It only lasted about thirty seconds.”  
  
Leslie’s hand snakes its way past the waistband of his pajama pants and she’s seriously going to kill him when she grasps his cock at the root and squeezes. “Thirty seconds, huh?”  
  
“If I’m being generous. Sonja seemed disappointed, too. She called me an amateur and sent me packing back to Leif’s room. I was kind of crushed.”  
  
“Poor guy.”  
  
“Eh, it was pretty typical for the guys I knew. Teenage boys aren’t exactly masters of control. Especially the first time. I know I was too scared, and thrilled, for any sort of finesse.”  
  
Her voice is flat. “Ben, I’ll be honest with you. I’m a little scared myself.”  
  
“What are you scared about?”  
  
“I don’t know…everything? What if I have it so built up in my head that I’m disappointed? What if it hurts? What if I do it wrong? What if I’m so bad at it that you never want to see me again?”  
  
Ben unceremoniously removes her hand from his crotch, as much as he doesn’t want to, and flips over so that he is facing her. “You’re _not_ going to do it wrong. There is no doing it wrong. Sex is, like, eighty-five percent instinct. You do what your body tells you to do. You do what feels good.”  
  
“Easy for you to say. You’ve probably had sex a million times.”  
  
“Leslie,” he says, stroking her cheek. “When we finally do have sex, I am not going to think you’re bad at it. And I can guarantee that I’ll want you again. Look, I haven’t had sex in almost three years. I don’t know if it’ll make you feel any better but I kind of feel like a virgin, too.”  
  
“It does make me feel better.” She kisses him, long and slow. “I think we should do it, Ben.”  
  
“Here? Now?” he sputters.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You’re the one who wanted a string quartet present at the big moment, not me. Or at least for it to be memorable. My house is most definitely not memorable.”  
  
There is a long silence. “I don’t know, Ben. As much as it pains me to admit it, I think I was wrong. I don’t think I need some crazy, romantic scenario. Being with you will be memorable enough.”  
  
“Are you sure?” he asks. He can’t believe what he’s hearing.  
  
“Yeah,” she says and she sounds very sure.  
  
He kisses her, overcome with joy and nervousness in equal measures. He’s going to have to make sure this is good, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances.  
  
For long minutes, they kiss but this time she lets him slide his hand underneath her shirt, lets him touch her and stroke her. She wiggles out of her shirt and he takes his own off and for the second time that night they’re touching skin to skin. It’s just as exciting as the first.  
  
“I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he whispers. “So if you need me to stop or slow down, just tell me.”  
  
“Have I ever been uncomfortable expressing my opinion?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
He strokes her thighs. He’s so hard his head is probably going to explode in gory bits all over the bedroom. Leslie shudders when he begins touching her, softly and slowly. She spreads her legs for him, and his fingers slide underneath her panties. Oh shit, she’s already wet, wet for _him_ , Ben Wyatt. He feels like the Master of the Universe that he can do this to her. This is perfect, he thinks. Nothing can go wrong now.  
  
“Ow!” Leslie says, sitting up a little.  
  
“Oh my God, what?” He spoke too soon.  
  
“You were on my hair.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says. He kisses her and could she be any better at kissing? Is there a kissing Olympics and how does one qualify for such a competition? It almost hurts him to leave her lips and tongue for even one second but he has other plans. He takes one of her nipples in his mouth and experimentally runs his tongue around it.  
  
“I like that,” she gasps. “I like that a lot.” So he does it a lot more, alternating nipples from time to time.  
  
“Hold on,” she mutters. She rolls away from him and removes her panties, tossing them over the side of the bed. Holy fucking shit, this is really going to happen. Ben almost comes right then and there.  
  
“Um…um,” he stutters. “I need to get a…you know…”  
  
“A condom?”  
  
“Yeah, that.” He sits up.  
  
Fuck. The box of condoms he bought at Walgreen’s just yesterday is in his overnight bag. Which is currently sitting in a hotel suite that may or may not be engulfed in flames.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” Ben says. He vaguely remembers Andy saying something about needing to buy condoms once. Maybe there will be some in his room.  
  
He sprints down the hall, nearly tripping on a Frisbee. He opens the door to April and Andy’s bedroom and flicks on the light. The room is a mess, as usual. It could take him hours to find condoms, if there are any. He paces uselessly.  
  
Ben has a sudden flash of genius. If he were Andy Dwyer, where would he keep the condoms? Within arm’s reach of the bed, he reasons. Somewhere memorable.  
  
To the left of the bed, laying on the floor, is a Colts helmet. Ben picks it up. A nearly full box of Trojan Ecstasy condoms, lubricated and “textured for female stimulation,” is inside. Score! Ben is ridiculously proud of his investigative skills—he could kick Sherlock Holmes’ ass any time. He trots back to the bedroom, box in hand.  
  
Inside, the light is on and Leslie is sitting up, with the sheet tucked wrapped around her.  
  
“Is everything okay?” he asks, a little breathless.  
  
“Yeah, I just wanted the light on.” She smiles, a private and sexy smile. “I want to see you.”  
  
He drops the box of condoms.  
  
“Okay, sure, fine,” he says, picking up the box and setting it on the bedside table. “Whatever you want.”  
  
He’s not overly thrilled about having his skinny, almost hairless chest exposed, but he’ll live with it. Leslie isn’t making retching noises or anything so she’s probably not too repulsed at the sight of him. Still, he makes a note to himself to devise some sort of mood lighting for the future.  
  
Ben removes his pajama pants and boxers, avoiding Leslie’s eyes. He sits down on the bed and she comes up behind him on her knees, wrapping her arms around his chest. “I want to see,” she says.  
  
“Have you never seen one before?”  
  
“I’ve seen penises before but I’ve never seen yours,” she says softly.  
  
At this point, he’s no longer hard after the running and condom sleuthing and all. “It’s not at its most impressive,” he says.  
  
“So, you’re a grower, not a shower, huh,” she says.  
  
“What? Where did you hear _that_?”  
  
“Donna,” she says brightly.  
  
“Of course it was Donna,” he mutters. Does Leslie think his dick is too small? It’s not huge but it’s big enough to get the job done. She felt it when it was hard.  
  
Leslie flops back onto the mattress. “Ben, you have a beautiful penis. It’s like a work of art, like something by Michelangelo or maybe a Greek _kouros_.” She suppresses a giggle.  
  
“It’s kind of hot when you talk about _kouroi_.” He flops next to her.  
  
“I almost minored in art history. Did you know that early _kouroi_ wore belts but nothing else? Kind of kinky, don’t you think?”  
  
“You’re a veritable font of kink.” He turns on to his side to face her. “So, where were we?”  
  
“Getting naked?”  
  
“Yeah, that.” He peels the sheet back from her body. God, Leslie is beautiful and the best part about it is that she doesn’t have even a tenth of a clue about how beautiful she is.  
  
Ben starts up the kissing and the touching again. It doesn’t take long before he has one finger buried in her, the other circling her clit, and she is breathily moaning in his ear, something that makes him harder than any ancient Greek statue. He has an important, potentially Earth-shattering decision to make right now. Take his time and go down on her but risk potential insanity on his part? Or does he go for gold?  
  
“Ben,” she says, so quietly he almost can’t hear her. “I think we should…I think it’s time.”  
  
It’s gold time. A thrill runs up his spine.  
  
He grabs the box of condoms off the table. It seems to take a century to get the packet torn open and a millennium to get the slippery condom on his cock. He really should have practiced ahead of time. It’s definitely been a while since he’s had to do this.  
  
One thing Ben _has_ prepared for ahead of time is the issue of sexual positions. He has considered many, sometimes quite inappropriately during meetings, but in the end, after going through the pros and cons, he decided missionary was best. It’s a classic for a reason and doesn’t require a lot of acrobatics for a first-timer.  
  
As he positions himself between her legs, Ben has a fleeting, terrible thought. What if he’s completely forgotten how to make love to a woman? He shakes his head as if to clear it of the bad thoughts and focuses on the lovely sight of Leslie Knope, lying on his bed wearing only a nervous, sweet smile. Everything will be just fine, he thinks.  
  
“Leslie, I just want you to know that I’m really honored that you chose me,” he says. “I think you’re an amazing woman.”  
  
There are tears in her eyes but she also laughs a little. “So are you, Ben.”  
  
He guides himself inside her with his hand—slowly, ever so slowly. He doesn’t want to hurt her.  
  
“Oh,” she says. “Oh.”  
  
“Are you okay. I’m not hurting too much, am I?”  
  
“No, no, no.”  
  
One last little push and he’s fully inside her. Damn, he really did forget how incredible it feels to be inside a woman. Inside Leslie. He almost comes at the thought.  
  
She pulls his head down close to hers and kisses him. “We did it! Yay!” Her nose knocks against his but he’s already so far gone he doesn’t care.  
  
He kisses her back, starting to thrust inside her with excruciating slowness. All he wants to do is turn the engine up to eleven and just go to town but he doesn’t want it to end too soon. Leslie starts moving with him, her body meeting each thrust halfway. Her breathing is ragged, her arms clutching him tightly.  
  
This is the best ever, Ben thinks, driving harder into her. He and Leslie fit together so well, she feels so good, this is what he’s been waiting for all this time. Leslie’s hands grab his buttocks as if to push him deeper inside her and she lets out this guttural sound that…  
  
OHFUCKINGSHITTHISISSOGOODANDHE’SCOMINGCO

MINGCOMING.

Ben’s entire world explodes into an infinite number of pieces, which travel through the universe at faster than light speed and then come hurtling back to reform into the shape of his bedroom, a panting Leslie under him.

No, no fair. It was too soon! As soon as his breathing is under control, Ben pants, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Leslie.”

She lifts her head off the bed. “What on Earth are you sorry about?”

He carefully removes his rapidly deflating cock from inside her and sits up to take the condom off. “It was so quick. It wasn’t supposed to go that quickly.”

“How long is it supposed to last?”

He lays back down next to her. “There’s no set limit but I do know that three minutes is not long enough. I’m sorry. I was just really excited.”

She kisses him and curls into his side. “Ben, I don’t care. It was great. I loved feeling so close to you. I loved all of it.”

“Did it hurt too much?”

“No, just a little at first.” Leslie shakes her head.

“But you didn’t…you didn’t…”

“Come? Have an orgasm? Big deal. I can have one of those any time. Grab my purse from over there; my Pocket Rocket's inside. I can make myself come in less than a minute flat.” She raises an eyebrow. “Lots of practice over the years.”

“I promise that the next time will be better,” he says, taking her hand and squeezing it. "We definitely can bring the Pocket Rocket along for the ride next time."

“Stop apologizing, okay? Look, I know I said I wanted perfection but what if perfection isn’t an end point but a process?”

“Then we’d have to practice a whole lot.”

“I’m willing to make that sacrifice if you are,” Leslie says. “And guess what? I’m not a virgin anymore!”

“I feel like we should throw you a party.”

“If only,” she says, sighing dreamily. “It would be the best party _ever_. There’s only one thing that makes this night less than perfect, besides the hotel fire and all.”

“What’s that?”

“I never got to eat those waffles. They looked incredible.”

“Yeah, bummer. Too bad JJ’s is closed.” Ben has a sudden flash of inspiration. He kisses her on the cheek and sits up. “Wait, I’ll be right back.”

*

Ten minutes later, Ben returns to his bedroom, his hands behind his back. Leslie is draped diagonally across the bed on her back, the t-shirt back on. She's softly snoring.

He touches her shoulder. “Leslie, wake up.”

“Sure, I'd be happy to present that to the City Council,” she says, sitting up and pushing hair out of her face. She blinks up at him. “Ben, where are we?”

“My house, remember?”

“Oh, right.” She smiles sheepishly.

“I have something for you,” he says, presenting her with a pie plate. “It not _gaufres belges avec fraises_ but it’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

On the pie plate are two Eggo waffles he found at the back of the freezer, slightly crushed on one side. He topped it with some honey Greek yogurt Chris made him buy (“For your small intestine, Ben! Do it for your small intestine!”) and a handful of probably stale chocolate chips.

“My God,” Leslie says. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me, ever.”

He sits down next to her and hands her a fork. “Do you mind sharing?”

“You think I share waffles? How little you know me, Ben,” she says, her mouth full.

“Come on,” he tilts his head and bats his eyes at her.

Leslie pushes the tin toward him. “I will always share my waffles with you.” She makes it sound like a serious vow.

“I’m touched.”

She kisses him. “Okay, so there weren’t any bald eagles but I still think it was perfect. You’re perfect.”

“ _We’re_ perfect,” he says, and takes a bite of the waffle.


End file.
